On Friday afternoon, dear Omar was peacefully put to sleep. His little body was in too much pain, and he had stopped eating and drank little. Slowly and sadly, he was shutting down. He would strain to purr in our company, but his breathing had become more laboured. He could no longer be comfortably cuddled, and after writing about him sleeping by my side (for our installation of work as part of In Your Dreams), he no longer came to bed. His movements became less and less as he grew skinnier and weaker. He struggled to rotate in his small heated bed. His fur lost its lustre. His sore eye that had refused to heal bled when he scratched it. In those final days, he asked only that one of us sat with him at all times, and lightly rested a hand nearby. He was the embodiment of the flesh being weak but the spirit willing, and it was heartbreaking to watch and the grief unshakable. We slept around his little bed in the lounge room, waiting and listening, and offering him a little sip of water when he licked his lips. But none of us really slept, we just waited and occasionally dozed. After a cursory sniff, Percy and Olive gave him a wide berth, and they quietly retreated to other parts of the house. And we prepared to say goodbye to our dear old cat of sixteen-and-a-bit years.

Louise dug a generous grave for him beneath the mock orange tree, his favourite spot in the front garden. She dug it wide and deep so he’d be safe and warm, and she selected an antique flowering rose from the nursery to serve as a tombstone. A white rose crown, and some pansies, too, for his slippers. We selected a shawl to serve as a shroud, blue like his eyes, and soft, and we tucked it inside the little carry case to take to the vets when the time came. We had made two appointments with his preferred vet, Craig, one earlier, just in case his pain was too great, and one later, fingers crossed (for tomorrow).

Come Friday morning, we knew it was the earlier appointment. As many people had assured us, we knew when it is the right time, when all quality of life was gone. It was the last thing we could do for him, to give him a peaceful end. I held his tiny little head until we buried him beneath the soil and it was in these preparations that something sad became more bearable. As we fell apart, we had only to follow the plan. Craig wrapped him tenderly in the shawl, curling Omar’s long soft body into a little pose of sleep like the letter C.

Now a candle burns in the front window overlooking his little grave. I try not to think of his little body out there in the rain instead of inside where it should be with me. I try not to dwell on all the things we last did together, but I miss him terribly. I know we had to say goodbye, but I never knew it would be so hard and the gap so large. Our house feels so quiet and wrong without him.

Thank-you all for your kind emails, tweets, comments, and photos. It has meant so very much.

{Last time atop my shoulder on Thursday morning. From the very first time I met him as a small kitten, he has loved to sit on my shoulder. He raced up my arm as a kitten and mewed, Pick Me, and I did. (Earlier times, thanks to instagram: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10)}

On Friday afternoon, dear Omar was peacefully put to sleep. His little body was in too much pain, and he had stopped eating and drank little. Slowly and sadly, he was shutting down. He would strain to purr in our company, but his breathing had become more laboured. He could no longer be comfortably cuddled, and after writing about him sleeping by my side (for our installation of work as part of In Your Dreams), he no longer came to bed. His movements became less and less as he grew skinnier and weaker. He struggled to rotate in his small heated bed. His fur lost its lustre. His sore eye that had refused to heal bled when he scratched it. In those final days, he asked only that one of us sat with him at all times, and lightly rested a hand nearby. He was the embodiment of the flesh being weak but the spirit willing, and it was heartbreaking to watch and the grief unshakable. We slept around his little bed in the lounge room, waiting and listening, and offering him a little sip of water when he licked his lips. But none of us really slept, we just waited and occasionally dozed. After a cursory sniff, Percy and Olive gave him a wide berth, and they quietly retreated to other parts of the house. And we prepared to say goodbye to our dear old cat of sixteen-and-a-bit years.

Louise dug a generous grave for him beneath the mock orange tree, his favourite spot in the front garden. She dug it wide and deep so he’d be safe and warm, and she selected an antique flowering rose from the nursery to serve as a tombstone. A white rose crown, and some pansies, too, for his slippers. We selected a shawl to serve as a shroud, blue like his eyes, and soft, and we tucked it inside the little carry case to take to the vets when the time came. We had made two appointments with his preferred vet, Craig, one earlier, just in case his pain was too great, and one later, fingers crossed (for tomorrow).

Come Friday morning, we knew it was the earlier appointment. As many people had assured us, we knew when it is the right time, when all quality of life was gone. It was the last thing we could do for him, to give him a peaceful end. I held his tiny little head until we buried him beneath the soil and it was in these preparations that something sad became more bearable. As we fell apart, we had only to follow the plan. Craig wrapped him tenderly in the shawl, curling Omar’s long soft body into a little pose of sleep like the letter C.

Now a candle burns in the front window overlooking his little grave. I try not to think of his little body out there in the rain instead of inside where it should be with me. I try not to dwell on all the things we last did together, but I miss him terribly. I know we had to say goodbye, but I never knew it would be so hard and the gap so large. Our house feels so quiet and wrong without him.

Thank-you all for your kind emails, tweets, comments, and photos. It has meant so very much.

{Last time atop my shoulder on Thursday morning. From the very first time I met him as a small kitten, he has loved to sit on my shoulder. He raced up my arm as a kitten and mewed, Pick Me, and I did. (Earlier times, thanks to instagram: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10)}

.

*

..

Traveller dear,

Louise Jennison and I make artists’ books, we make all sorts of things, and most usually we make things on paper. Collaboration comes naturally to us both; it is an enjoyable process that yields treasure not possible without the other. Working side-by-side, as we do from our home-based studio in Melbourne, Australia, it is a pattern we are familiar with, a path we are delighted to tread, seeing what new scenario evolves. Collaboration throws up the unexpected, and what is not to like about that?

When not with scissors in hand, I can be found writing about ballet and contemporary dance for Fjord Review, and (upon occasion) painting and collage for RMIT.

With paper sufficient to cover the moon and sincerely yours, Gracia Haby
(High Up in the Trees since 2006)